Chương 116: Book 4 - Chapter 8 A

Later that evening, after the last of the barbeque had been eaten and the party was winding down, I sat with my old friend, Samantha Smith, on the porch swing, looking out over the moonlit water. She was seventeen now, impossibly confident and poised after her first season playing Darla on a major sitcom.

"It's just crazy, John. The whole cast and crew are family now, but when we get out in public, it is total chaos," Sam said, leaning back.

"It's not just acting anymore. People expect me to be Darla, even when I'm just trying to buy a CD."

"Welcome to the life," I said with a wry smile.

"But it sounds like you're doing well. You still going to Stanford for film theory?"

"Absolutely. The show won't last forever, and I want to be behind the camera one day. But enough about me. You're the one who just bought an island and is building nuclear reactors," she countered, punching me lightly on the arm.

"So, what was the big topic at the World Youth Council this year, Secretary General?" I asked, emphasizing her title.

"Did you keep to the plan, or find a new topic? It's your fourth year chairing, right?"

"This year was focused on Global Disease and Resource Access," she said, the casual tone dropping away.

"The issues are so immense they seem insurmountable. We talked a lot about the lack of basic medicine. It was overwhelming, honestly.

"You came up," she said with a smile.

"Your filters are still saving lives giving even the poorest people clean water in developing nations. Mattie was so proud to tell everybody you are her brother."

"I think it is one of my greatest inventions," I told her.

"But what about the topic from last year?" I asked, leaning closer.

"Pollution, right? When you chaired the 1988 meeting? Did the kids actually make any noise about industrial waste and the Pacific Garbage Patch?"

"They were desperate, John," Sam confirmed.

"Specifically, pollution that we can see, feel, and taste. The plastic waste, the smog, the industrial runoff. The politicians gave the usual speeches, but the kids—the future leaders—they were angry. They want solutions, not promises." I looked out over the lake.

"They don't need promises, that's just delayed failure. They need action. And they're right. We have the technology to fix this. Not just to clean up, but to stop the waste stream at the source." Sam sensed the shift in my focus.

"And you, Dr John Cook, have decided to step in and fix it for us? You told me two years ago that solving the issues we bring up at the World Youth Council become your goals. Then you ran off to the Olympics." I gave her a knowing glance.

"I'm the only person in the world with the resources and the gall to try. The scale is immense, but the solution is surprisingly elegant, and financially viable. It just needs the right catalyst."

"So, what's the plan? More clean energy?" she prodded.

"More than just that," I told her.

"It'll impact everyone's life. I'm combining all the things I've invented to create something the world desperately needs," I said, a slow grin spreading across my face.

"I've filed the first of several patents. And I need you to do me a favor, Sam. A big one."

"Anything, John. What is it?"

"On January 1st, 1990, I'm going to make an announcement. I need you to make sure every single person you know, from the crew on your show to your entire family, is glued to the TV. Especially the journalists."

"What are you announcing?" she asked curiously.

"Let's just say I'm giving the world a new direction. The 90's are going to be unlike any decade previous. It's going to put a target on my back but hopefully minimal criticism."

"I heard your Mom say you're leaving early to go meet with the President. Is it about that?"

"He didn't say why he wanted to talk, but yeah. I'm going to lay it out for him. I don't know what will happen, I'm hopeful that he's supportive."

"Are you nervous?" she asked, seeing the look on my face.

"Yeah, I am. I've been on Oprah, but this is scarier. Telling the whole world that the future just changed," I looked into her eyes, "Sam, if for some reason the President flips out and I disappear because he doesn't like my plan, get to GA in San Diego. Find my assistant Tim and tell him the files have to be released to the public. He'll make it happen." She went pale as she contemplated what I was saying, then she saw the grin I couldn't hold back.

"Ah! You had me going," she said and slugged my shoulder. She laughed loudly drawing attention, before she leaned in and whispered, "Are you sure it's going to be okay?"

"I think so, but now you know. Just make sure you're there to see it happen." She nodded, a co-conspirator in a world-changing secret.

"You got it, John. I'll make sure everyone watches." The next morning, the Oklahoma sun was already blasting through the resort windows, making the air-conditioning work overtime. I was drinking the last of my orange juice from breakfast, when Mattie and Sam walked in, fresh from an early swim in the hotel pool. Mattie, perpetually energized, was toweling off her hair and humming an off-key pop song. Sam, by contrast, looked thoughtful, a genuine smile replacing her new 'on-camera' poise.

"Morning, Dr Cook," Sam greeted me, grabbing a piece of toast. She didn't often use the Doctor title unless she was trying to prove a point, or just teasing me.

"Just John, Sam. Always John," I corrected, knowing she would ignore me.

"You two are up early." Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

"We were swimming, but we started talking about the World Youth Council," Mattie chimed in, leaning against the counter. Her excitement at hanging out with a movie star was palpable.

"This is my second year attending." Sam nodded, looking directly at Mattie.

"John, I decided I'm not going back to the Council next year. It's time to focus fully on the University applications and my film work. They need a new Secretary General, and I've been thinking about who can take over. They need someone young, smart, and with a history of following through." She paused for dramatic effect.

"Mattie, I want you to be the next Secretary General." Mattie dropped her towel. Her eyes went wide.

"Me? You're serious? I'm not even twelve yet!" she stammered, picking the towel back up.

"You'll be twelve by the time the next session starts," Sam pointed out, taking a sip of my orange juice.

"You've been at the last two, you know the process, and you're already one of the most respected delegates. Plus," Sam added, with a conspiratorial glance at me, "it would drive a whole lot of grown-ups crazy to see a twelve-year-old running the show. Think of the press coverage for the issues." Mattie's expression shifted from disbelief to absolute determination in a flash. The idea of running something clearly appealed to her.

"I'll do it," she declared, her voice firm.

"What topic should we run on?" I leaned back in my chair, watching the interaction. It was perfect. Mattie had the drive and the moral compass to elevate the Council's work. The council had been the lure that had saved Sam's life, and no one expected kids to actually accomplish anything. The real goal was teaching the kids that it was okay to stand up and denounce the grown up world for its systemic faults, and to start thinking about how to fix them.

"Well, the last two years were on Pollution and Disease/Resource Access," I summarized, listing them on my fingers.

"The issues are still huge, but Sam's right: they need something that unifies all the delegates."

"We need a topic that's a lever, John," Sam said.

"Something that, if fixed, helps all the other problems. We talked about water last night—but you already solved that with your filter."

"What about Hunger?" Mattie suggested.

"It's what the Council talked about before, and people are still hungry." I saw Sam's guilty wince, knowing that the council was powerless to really affect change.

"It's too broad, and it's already been covered," Sam countered gently.

"We need something new, something foundational." I stood up, finished with breakfast.

"Think about the common denominator for all the kids you meet there. Whether they're from a major city or an isolated island. What's the biggest difference between them and us?" Mattie chewed on her lip, thinking hard.

"Access to medicine, maybe?"

"Closer," I said.

"Think about how we solve problems. How we invent things." Mattie's face brightened.

"It's Education! The kids from the poorest countries—the ones who can't even go to school because they have to work, or the ones who only have a few textbooks. That's the key to everything else."

"Exactly," Sam confirmed, smiling proudly at Mattie.

"If you can give a child quality education, they can work to solve their own local problems, from disease to pollution to hunger. Access to Education—it's perfect."

"I love it," Mattie said, punching the air.

"Now, how do I become Secretary General?"

"I think I can just appoint you," Sam said, "We never really set up anything to control it. John just asked me to be in charge, so I was." I grinned, already having agreed.

"I do fund it," I said with a grin.

"Done. Mattie you're Secretary General. Now that we have a new Secretary General and a topic, how about we go back out on the lake? I want to test the kite-sail in a bit more wind." My plane landed early on the 10th, and I arrived on time for the morning meeting at the White House. It was a bright, muggy July morning. The Oval Office, filled with the soft light of a summer sun, always felt smaller than it looked on television.

Unlike the last time I'd been here, I was rested, showered and dressed in my best black suit. I felt ready for the inevitable shift in my relationship with the US government.

"Dr Cook, please have a seat," President George Bush said, his demeanor an effortless mix of formality and geniality. He gestured to the couch. I sat as he introduced the four men in the room: two sharp-eyed officials from the National Security Council, a senior State Department official and his Chief of Staff. The President settled back in his high-backed chair, folding his hands on the desk with a statesman's practiced ease.

"John, I appreciate you coming. And I appreciate the counsel you've given us over the years. But your letter on the Soviet Union is anything but theoretical." He tapped a manila folder, his gaze intense.

"Your dates are specific. Your conclusion is absolute. We agree on the if, but we need your help with the how. How do we manage the collapse? How do we ensure a soft landing so Russia becomes a peaceful, stable state?" I leaned forward slightly, projecting absolute confidence.

"The priority is the economy, Mr President," I said, my voice clear.

"The danger is not war, it's economic despair and civil unrest leading to the subsequent rise of a new belligerent strongman. The most direct advice I can give is: Do not allow Dr Jeffrey Sachs anywhere near the new Russian government. His 'Shock Therapy' approach will only set up the country for a disastrous, decade-long economic collapse." The NSC man on the far left frowned, his pen poised, ready to argue the economic orthodoxy, but the President gestured for him to hold fire.

"The key to transitioning a planned economy is threefold. It is a methodical, phased process," I continued, outlining the plan crisply.

"Step One: Separate ownership from management. The State holds the shares, but management becomes judged entirely on profit and loss, not political loyalty. This creates immediate efficiency."

"Step Two: Transition from planned quotas to a market economy. Every year, reduce the required production by twenty-five percent. Any production above that mark belongs entirely to the company and the workers and a market economy. Right now in Russia, the joke is, 'they pretend to pay us, and we pretend to work.' This connects profits to worker productivity, surplus goods and materials will be in constant demand.

The slow change to a full market economy will reduce spikes in prices as demand greatly exceeds liberalized production."

"Step Three: Allocate the shares. The government sells forty percent of the state owned companies on the open market. This allows for entrepreneurs to gain control of management. Critically forty percent of the stock must be left as employee-owned to fund benefits and to give the workers a voice. The final twenty percent is held by the government, in lieu of taxation. That twenty percent lets the government step in when there is a dispute between labor and management."

"This solves two problems at once: natural resistance to privatization by the Soviet people, and protection of the worker class," I concluded.

"It is a path to stability and eventual tax revenue." The men in the room had been writing furiously, their heads bowed over their pads.

"A brilliant approach," the President said, his eyes alight with the focus of a policy veteran.

"Straightforward and psychologically sound. John, I've got a degree in economics myself, and that is the most straightforward plan I've ever heard. It is no wonder you are considered the wealthiest man on the planet," he said, glancing at his advisers to make sure they understood this was golden advice.

"Now, you mentioned a domestic issue with national implications. A commercial secret?" Before I shifted my focus entirely, and one more thing to add.

"One note on Russia, sir. It will need immediate help with the state-owned company payroll. If you make it conditional to accepting this plan and use the twenty percent government-held stock as collateral, it will get the process started. It will also quell dispute at home over giving Russian any sort of support."

"Understood," Bush said, nodding to his staff, who rapidly noted the instruction.

"An asset-backed loan is an investment, not a handout. That will play much better in the media." He looked at the other men.

"Gentlemen, if you'll excuse us. I suspect Dr Cook's final matter requires the utmost discretion." They shuffled out, offering effusive thanks and shaking my hand, the heavy door closing behind them. I sat back into the couch, but kept my posture straight.